


Without fear, without metaphor

by reginar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Communication, Dacryphilia, Humor, Illustrated, Language Barrier, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, Rating May Change, Rating has changed, Rimming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-09-25 14:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9824237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginar/pseuds/reginar
Summary: Yuuri was never one to use more words than necessary. Underutilized it, even, his family and friends would remark. Still, there was a certain relief that came with easy communication. Then he started wanting to use words for more. He even ran his mouth quite a few times in the past months, much to his embarrassment. And he quietly admitted to himself that it came with the sudden barrage of Viktor Nikiforov into what he expected to be peaceful life and probable retirement in his hometown."I wantto love you simply,without fear, without metaphor,but it is difficultin English."- from “Rindu” by Isabela Banzon





	1. what you say in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my uni's writing organization for being utter _Yuri on Ice_ trash that it was possible for me to have a fan fiction workshop. I'd also like to thank those who knew nothing but participated anyway.

 

* * *

The chill in the arena swept Yuuri’s cheeks as he stepped onto the ice and felt the glide beneath his feet. It wasn’t too cold, not when he’d spent the last week in freezing St. Petersburg, but it calmed his nerves nonetheless. The crowd and practicing skaters around him felt distant, as though their noise passed through a thick gel, and, in that moment, it was like they weren’t there. In his vision, they were a blur of colors, undefined. When he landed his quad, steady on one foot, the sound came back, the last notes of another skater’s SP music blending in with the cheers, but he wasn’t bothered. In time, they settled in the background, and he listened to his own breathing and movement. Then, the announcer’s booming voice cut through Makomanai Ice Arena to end the Men’s Group 1’s practice session.

Yuuri spun and approached the exit, head low. Through a camera somewhere, he hoped Viktor was watching, but probably not; Viktor could be sleeping in—Yekaterinburg was four hours behind—or he could be practicing for his own Free Skate. That man was disgustingly a morning person, awake every single day at five AM sharp, even if it was a day off. Yuuri could call to know, but he stubbornly refused to.

A familiar voice called his name, and he looked up abruptly, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He stepped out of the rink, and Minako handed him his glasses and blade guards. He leaned on the barrier for support to put them on.

“You look like you’re doing well, practicing on your own there,” she said.

“Minako-sensei,” he said as greeting, almost sighing with relief. He tried to smile but ended up just stretching his pressed lips a bit. He tried again and hoped to have succeeded. “Why are you here?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen you since Barcelona, you know. Let’s get lunch.”

“Eh? That was only weeks ago. Besides, I don’t feel like eating....”

Minako was clearly having none of that and gently pushed him in the direction for the exit. “Come on, silver medal or no, you can’t perform Eros with an empty stomach. You haven’t had breakfast yet, have you?” Her tone was accusatory. She waited for an answer and then clicked her tongue at his silence.

They agreed to meet in the lobby as Yuuri went to the locker room to change. He was happy to see her, truly. He was happy to see someone familiar, at least. He patted vaguely on his chest and kneaded a dull throb that was less physical and more mental, same as the one he felt on his last day at Rostelecom Cup, but not as bad. The locker room only had a few people in it, mostly junior skaters who stared when Yuuri entered. He made a beeline to his locker at the far end.

After changing, he sat on the bench. His phone informed him that he had no notification and that it was half-past eleven, and he wondered if Viktor would answer if he called now. He did send a message this morning at four (he had set up an alarm, to which he had woken up with difficulty) and greeted Viktor a happy birthday. His face warmed up. He opted to call Yurio instead, but got no answer after a long ring. The Russian team was likely being worked on the ice by Yakov. Having not received any call or message, any sort of response whatsoever, was gnawing on his nerves, and he couldn’t help but remember that short moment in Barcelona, before the banquet: Viktor, knotting Yuuri’s new tie as though finishing off a present, had brought up that his apartment in St. Petersburg was a closer jog to the Russian team’s home rink than Yu-topia was to Ice Castle. “It means you can sleep in more for when we train for our Nationals!” he had cheerfully added. It was then that Yuuri had realized that they’d be apart on Christmas day, rendering him unable to respond. Viktor had asked him what the matter was, and, rather than admit that he’d been fantasizing on celebrating the twenty-fifth of December finally with Viktor, Yuuri had instead blurted out: “I will find my own apartment afterwards though.” Viktor had hummed, and until now, Yuuri wondered if that had been a subtle frown on Viktor’s face, if he’d somehow offended Viktor not for the first time during their stay. However, everything had seemed fine afterwards.

When Yuuri left the locker room, he was cornered by a foreign-looking man. The man began asking him questions about his plans now that Viktor Nikiforov had announced his return to the ice: Would Yuuri be finding a new coach? The questions were a steady flow out of the man’s mouth, and Yuuri found himself staring into the recorder unceremoniously shoved at his face.

“Er—” Yuuri said, his mind blank. His right hand rubbed at his chest, as he did previously, and his ring glinted in the hallway’s fluorescent light. His lips tightened into a thin line. Not right now, he thought. He bowed curtly and apologized in Japanese. In English, he said in a hesitant-sounding whisper, slathered with a faked, thick accent, “I am running out of English. Goodbye.” He turned sharply and marched away, the swift tapping of boots echoing in the hallway, leaving the man confused. Yuuri couldn’t blame him; he himself knew he was fluent enough in his past interviews. Little did the man know, it was a technique Yuuri had often used back in Detroit to get out of unwanted conversations.

The warmth of the arena’s lobby welcomed him, making him realize that his brow was furrowed and his shoulders tense. He let himself relax, despite the place bustling with reporters and skating fans. Yuuri found Minako taking pictures of his poster by the entrance and immediately dragged her away, hoping she would not add any more to the countless unflattering photos of him already existing online. A gaggle of people called out to him but stayed at a distance. Remembering Viktor's words at the Regionals, Yuuri waved and smiled, or at least, tried to.

Minako patted his head lightly, careful not to ruffle his gelled-back hair. “Aw, you’re getting friendlier now!” she said, grinning. “Anyway, where do you want to eat?”

It was just like the National competitions before he’d gone on to train under Celestino. Minako had been with him throughout his Junior career and was always there to make him eat when, on his own, he wouldn’t. He was not as alone as he’d thought.

“Anywhere, but not too far,” he said, feeling a genuine smile creep on his face. “I want enough time to warm up before the Men’s short.” He put on his scarf and shrugged on his coat as they went out the sliding glass doors. He kept his gloved hands in his pockets, his right clutching his phone in case it rang. “How did you get past security, by the way?” he asked as they took on the steps.

Minako smirked. “Friends in the Federation. I told them how alone you are right now, and they said,  ‘Anything to support Japan’s ace!” She showed off a coach’s pass around her neck.

Yuuri hid himself in his scarf, mumbling incoherently. It was high noon, and Makomanai Park was almost too bright. Vibrantly white snow covered the ground around them as they trudged to the park restaurant. The leafless trees and bushes looked like dark, messy drawings, rocking to the occasional breeze.

* * *

Yuuri was conscious of the eyes on him. He trained his own eyes at his feet as he stretched his calves, his nose almost touching his knee on his bent position. Minako, who was standing at a distance, called his attention: “Yuuri.”

He pulled himself up with ease. “Hmm?”

She pointed a thumb. “Minami-kun seems like he wants to talk to you. Be nice. I heard he stayed over at Yu-topia to support you.”

Yuuri looked at the end of the hall and found the boy. Minami Kenjirou beamed and waved enthusiastically. Yuuri waved back with much less enthusiasm, feeling embarrassed, but when Minami was about to approach, his coach dragged him away. Yuuri was relieved.

“He’s adorable. Kinda reminds me of you before, and now you’re engaged with your idol!”

“Let’s not,” whined Yuuri, his voice high. He almost gracefully collapsed on the floor to stretch again. “Please.” He convinced himself that the burning feeling on his face and ears was due to exercise.

Minako looked wickedly gleeful, but did not say anything else. Resting by her feet was Yuuri’s bag, where his phone began to ring. Startled, Yuuri grabbed it from where he sat, jumped up, and jogged a few feet away from Minako, whose expression was that of amusement.  

Yuuri swiped the screen to answer the call.

“Yuuri!” he heard Viktor gasp from the speaker.

“Viktor...” They were silent for a while before Yuuri spoke again: “Happy birthday,” he said softly, even though there was a pounding in his chest. It didn’t hurt, but it was overwhelming. He had to lean on the wall with his side. His jaw was quivering, as thought he was cold. When he pressed his lips together, he realized how chapped they were; he could almost visualize the cracks.

“Thank you,” said Viktor quietly. “I can’t believe you managed to convince Yurio to keep and deliver these. I love them.”

“I made him katsudon.” Yuuri laughed nervously as relief washed over him. “I watched your short program. It’s great to see you skate again.”

Viktor hummed. Yuuri wondered if Viktor picked up on the subject change. He’d waited all day to know if Viktor got his gift, and now that he confirmed it, he realized he did not want to talk about it. He gave Viktor a simple gift, a plain gold bracelet—and briefly, he wondered if this was a manifestation of something—and then a relic from his past. Thatone was embarrassing.

They had flown directly to Russia from Barcelona and began training immediately. Despite earlier protests, Viktor had actually had choreography planned for his comeback, and he polished them in the less-than-ten days before Russian Nationals. Yuuri was somewhat aware that he, in general, was oblivious to his surroundings, but he was also somewhat hyper-aware when it came to Viktor. He noticed things: He noticed that Viktor's (rather expensive-looking) apartment was bare except for shelves of books; he noticed that Viktor could not train for continuous hours as much as Yuuri could; he noticed that—and he flushed at this—Viktor was not as touchy when it came to other people, and said other people wore perplexed looks whenever they’d see Viktor touchy with him; and he noticed that Viktor hardly thought of his own birthday beyond a day during Russian Nationals.

Yuuri had stewed on the last observation for a week, until two days before he was set to leave for Japan. At that time, it had seemed like a good idea. Besides, separation was looming, and he was desperate to communicate that he himself celebrated Christmas day because of Viktor . And so, stupidly, he printed the fan letter he had written when he was fifteen, one that he’d tried to send to  _viktornikiforov@m9.dion.ne.jp_ , an email of pure guesswork, one that had gushed about how much he loved Viktor's  _Lilac Fairy_  program and how Viktor had inspired him to work hard in studying and skating, and then wrapped it along with the bracelet.

When Minako touched his elbow and motioned that he was due to perform, Yuuri said, “I have to go.”

“Good luck, Yuuri,” said Viktor, and then muttered something in Russian that sounded vaguely familiar. Yakov was probably scolding Viktor on the other side, Yuuri thought and then terminated the call.

By the rink, Yuuri shrugged off his Team Japan jacket as the previous skater headed to the Kiss and Cry. Minako stood by the barrier, watching. It was odd to perform Eros without Viktor, but the call did wonders on his nerves. He felt confident when he stepped on the ice, and he kissed his ring for good luck at the center before holding his pose. He breathed deeply, the cool air almost painful through his nostrils. He was calm. He could do this.

When the guitars of his music began, he swept his hands over his body, his mind drifting off to after what had happened after the Grand Prix Final gala: Every contact during the pair skate had felt electric, the closeness, the lingering touches on each other, the intimacy of the lifts and synchronization—all of it had come into a culmination in the quietness of their hotel room, sheets rustling beneath their bodies, mouths gasping as though they were drowning in the heat of each other’s being, reduced to their first tongues.

In his final pose, Yuuri was hit with an epiphany, about what Viktor had said on the phone. Of course, it was familiar; it was something that he’d heard himself say, something that he had practiced when he’d looked up Russian greetings and phrases at fifteen, but without the proper accent and pronunciation. It was at the end of his fan letter, too: я люблю тебя.

At the Kiss and Cry, he felt himself daze. He hardly focused on his score. Beside him, Minako exclaimed that it was higher than his GPF SP score. “Too bad this won’t go on record,” she lamented. Still, she was pleased. They proceeded backstage. Minako watched the next performance on one of the TVs as Yuuri dialed Viktor's number. After the fifth ring, Viktor picked up.

“Yuuri! I streamed your performance on my phone! I loved it! It looked different though.” Viktor's voice lowered. “What were you thinking? I want to know, Yuuri.”

“Ah...” Yuuri began, and Viktor paused, waiting. The hand holding his phone felt that his face was hot. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing coherent came out. He could not say it, not in English, not in Japanese, and imitating Russian felt like that—imitation. Panic started to form in his throat, but he tried to will it away. He closed his eyes. “The usual,” he said eventually and was surprised to hear that his voice was steady. “Thank you. Good luck on your free skate, too, Viktor. I... I also want to kiss gold.”

Viktor did get gold then, with Yurio coming very close with silver, and Giorgi bronze. The next day, Yuuri nabbed the gold as well. And yet, he couldn’t let himself feel too happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Rindu" is one of my all time favorite poems. You can read it [here](http://journals.upd.edu.ph/index.php/rws/article/viewFile/2875/2655).
> 
> My [tumblr](http://rayjinar.tumblr.com).
> 
> Comments and kudos are highly appreciated!


	2. suspended on wire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as Yuuri was concerned, words were mostly for practical needs, and English seemed more like a tool and less of an actual language. In Detroit, where he had spent most of his five years to train under Celestino, fluency was required minimally; after all, his coach and most of his rink mates were as foreign as he was and there had been a sense of camaraderie with their non-standard usage of the language. With native speakers, well, he knew enough to last him before mildly struggling - and he rarely made an effort to go long enough to struggle.

As far as Yuuri was concerned, words were mostly for practical needs, and English seemed more like a tool and less of an actual language. In Detroit, where he had spent most of his five years to train under Celestino, fluency was required minimally; after all, his coach and most of his rink mates were as foreign as he was and there had been a sense of camaraderie with their non-standard usage of the language. With native speakers, well, he knew enough to last him before mildly struggling —and he rarely made an effort to go long enough to struggle.

During the off-seasons that he was in Tokyo for university, he’d relished the freedom to speak his local tongue, even if it was simply to ask a stranger what time it was or to thank the cashier at the convenience store for his change. The shift was natural, and there was relief, almost, with the way he pronounced each syllable. This excitement would die out quickly, after a few days, or a week; he was never one to use more words than necessary. Underutilized it, even, his family and friends would remark. Still, there was a certain relief that came with easy communication.

Then he started wanting to use words for more. He even ran his mouth quite a few times in the past months, much to his embarrassment. And he quietly admitted to himself that it came with the sudden barrage of Viktor Nikiforov into what he expected to be peaceful life and probable retirement in his hometown. Five-time world champion Viktor Nikiforov, who lived most of his life under the intense scrutiny of cameras, decorated with gold for every year that had passed, was never one to be associated with anything peaceful. Prone to dramatics at the slightest provocations, he pranced into Yuuri’s life like an overexcited dog.

It was fortunate that Yuuri was a dog person.

Yuuri and Minako booked a flight back to Fukuoka on the twenty-ninth, arriving at noon. He had wanted to skip the gala and leave two days earlier, but the Federation had already asked him to perform before he even made the podium. It was almost lonely to perform _Stammi Vicino_  without a partner, but afterwards some interviewers remarked that it was “emotionally-charged” and “cathartic”. Honestly, Yuuri didn’t know whether to be relieved or embarrassed.

They ate lunch at the airport and took Kuko’s line to Meinohama station. By the time they transferred to the Chikuhi line, Yuuri was exhausted and napped all the way to Hasetsu station, where Minako woke him up. It was afternoon when they stepped off the bus station nearest Yu-topia. Upon entering the inn, Makkachin jumped on him, pushing him to land on snowy ground, and licked his face excitedly. After disentangling himself from her and wiping the cold drool on his cheeks, Yuuri greeted his family and the Nishigoris as they all congratulated him. He then excused himself, apologizing and saying that he was tired. With Makkachin following him, he dragged his luggage up the stairs to his bedroom’s direction, wheels clunking on the hardwood flooring. Instead of making his way to the door at the end, he slid open the banquet room, entered, and closed it after Makkachin. He collapsed onto the bed and buried his face on the pillow, inhaling deeply as he fished out his phone from his pocket. Makkachin rested by his feet.

“Hey,” said Viktor upon picking up the call.

Yuuri stretched, groaning slightly, and settled to curl on his side. “Hey.”

“How are you doing?”

“Hmm? Oh. I just called to tell you I’ve arrived at Hasetsu. I’m in your room.”

“Oh, that’s great! How are you? How is Makkachin?”

“Makkachin’s here with me but she’s taking a nap.”

“I’m sorry you have to pack for me, Yuuri.”

They had agreed that Yuuri would pack Viktor’s possessions, the ones he had brought from Russia and the ones he had accumulated over the months, and then have CedEx handle the delivery back to St. Petersburg.

“No, it’s fine,” said Yuuri. “I might find something embarrassing.”

“Yuuri!” Viktor whined. “You won’t judge me whatever you find, right? I’m still going to be your favorite skater? Your favorite coach? Your favorite fiance?”

Yuuri bolted up, and the bed shook, making Makkachin whimper slightly. Viktor said the word. Yuuri placed a palm to his cheek, as if he needed to check if it burned, because it definitely did. Viktor was Viktor, but if Yuuri would describe their relationship, it would be one of love. He’d said as much to anyone. They shared experiences, embraces, kisses, and then some, but Yuuri did not know what they were, something a little more than coach and student, most likely. The rings truly were omamori, but their other possible meanings were not lost on him. He had been hoping whatever he had with Viktor to last, and, caught in the moment, his subconscious made him drag Viktor to wear their rings in front of Barcelona cathedral. He still couldn’t decide if the choir that happened to be at the church’s steps had been a blessing or not. It was Viktor who called them engagement rings, and Yuuri wished Viktor had meant it, but he was convinced it was merely a ploy to lower their meaning from Phichit’s reaching assumption—that they got hitched in Barcelona. This was the second time Viktor implied engagement, previously opting to give sly smiles and winks to whoever asked.

Yuuri let himself fall back onto the pillows. “That... that would imply I have other coaches,” he said shakily.

Viktor faked a dramatic gasp. “Yuuri, are you cheating on me? Are you saying you have other coaches?”

“Yes, Viktor, I’m sorry,” Yuuri replied to play along. He grinned. “You may have met him? Tall, Russian, and really famous. He’s amazing, really. He won gold at the Nationals recently. Grey hair—”

“It’s silver!”

Yuuri laughed. “Yes, silver.”

“Hmm. Tell me more about this coach.”

“I was hoping to see him tomorrow when I fly back to Russia.” Yuuri looked up at the ceiling. “I really, really love his skating.”

Viktor was silent for a while before replying, “I love your skating, too.”

Yuuri froze. This exchange was dangerously close to that territory. That call from before his short program played in his head. He stretched his right arm up and looked at the gold ring on his finger. In the silence, he could hear his heart pound against his ribs.

“Anyway,” said Viktor, “you should take a rest, Yuuri. You don’t have to book a flight for tomorrow. I’m sure your family would want you to stay for New Year’s.”

“Do you have New Year plans?”

“Oh? I don’t know, really. I might go out. Sleep in, even! I haven’t slept in for a while. Yakov’s worked me hard.”

Yuuri blinked. He replied something he himself couldn’t remember, something expected and casual, his mind already elsewhere. He glanced down at his feet, where Makkachin splayed comfortably, pawing the sheets in her sleep. Yuuri wondered... Carefully, he left the bed. He approached the wardrobe and began mentally planning on how to pack up most efficiently. With reluctance that he made sure not to show in his voice, he said an excuse to end the call. He retrieved the CedEx boxes Viktor had already ordered a week before from the storage room and began packing. That night, Mari found the room cluttered with folded clothes and things sorted in groups only Yuuri, not even gods, knew.

“You leaving soon?” she asked, crossing her arms.

“Uh, yeah. Tomorrow morning. I already booked a flight.”

“Huh. I thought you’d spend New Year’s here.”

Guilt gnawed at his conscience. “I—I was planning to,” he said, folding what he realized was one of Viktor’s tiny, black briefs. He pushed it out of Mari’s sight and grabbed an innocuous article of clothing. A green something. Oh, it was one of the inn’s robes. He shouldn’t pack that up, even though Viktor loved wearing them. “But it was Viktor’s birthday last Christmas, and Makkachin is with us right now.” Did that make sense? He hoped it did.

Mari nodded. The corners of her mouth twitched to a small smile. “Anyway, dinner’s ready. Katsudon for the winner.” With that, she turned and walked away.

Yuuri followed minutes later only to find the public dining area decorated with banners. Congratulations, they said, on the silver and gold  _and_ the engagement. Looking at the pictures uploaded by the Nishigori triplets on Instagram, he found that, despite not drinking alcohol, his face was extremely red. When the Minako and the Nishigoris had gone home, Yuuri sat by one of the tables, brooding like some vengeful nineteenth century warrior, of all things to do after winning two competitions. He snapped out of his thoughts when his parents knelt on his either side.

“Take care of Vicchan,” said Hiroko. There was fondness in her voice. She gave him a long embrace. “I’m so happy for you two.”

“Th-thank you,” Yuuri managed to to say when she let go, too stunned for any more words.

Raising his bottle of sake, Toshiya chipped in: “Young love!” He chugged the drink, then said, “Your okaa-san also wants grandkids.”

“Toshiya! Don’t rush them.”

Yuuri wanted to run away and lock himself somewhere his parents’ expectant and proud faces wouldn’t be able to find him. He avoided their eyes and looked at the empty bowl in front of him.

“That boy needs love, Yuuri,” Hiroko continued, as she reached out for his hands. “Show him and tell him often. Sometimes, simple things speak the loudest.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened and his brow furrowed. “I—”  _don’t know how_ , he wanted to say. Instead, all he managed was to whisper, “Yes, okaa-san.” 

He didn’t know how to make it simple. For a while, he went around it through skating and hoped for the best. He felt too much, and the words they had for now weren’t good enough.

Odd. Despite his career going in a positive direction, it seemed that he was still struggling. He may have thought that winning a medal at the Grand Prix Final would end all his problems. After all, in his youth, any kind of win subsided his anxiety slightly; it made sense that a bigger win would be a bigger solution.

As he clambered up the stairs, Yuuri received a text message. Seeing that it was from Viktor, his anxiety flared up. He didn’t open it, not even after the beep that followed. He’d pretend to have fallen asleep, but it turned out the triplets were still uploading pictures from the celebration, giving their followers the idea that it was still on-going.

They were just words, Yuuri tried to convince himself as he was halfway through the clothing pile. But deep in his heart, he worried that his inability to reciprocate words would end what they had. It was ironic, because weeks ago, he had proposed a definite end to his and Viktor’s coaching relationship. But this other relationship was different and just as important, if not more. Another beep. He turned the phone off and shoved it under a pillow, to be settled with when he had a better grasp of himself and what to do.

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initial plan was to have three chapters only, but I felt like it's too cramped for development, and I asked a colleague if expanding this would be better, and he advised me to do it, so there you go. I'm not sure how long this will be, but definitely more than three and less than ten chapters.


	3. I want to love you simply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s difficult in English,” said Yuuri, slicing at his omelette.
> 
> “Ah. I get you.”
> 
> “It’s not the same.”
> 
> “Hmm-mm,” she agreed. “I tried to tell them I love them in French or German - I had to go to the library, since we didn’t have Google then - but it just felt like saying words, like hello to a stranger.” She shrugged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Map of Yu-topia](http://ricelily.tumblr.com/post/157588828881/tg-san-the-latest-issue-of-pash-has-a-layout-on).
> 
> Thanks to Aimee for looking this over!

The alarm went off barely an hour after Yuuri had finished packing up. It didn’t matter, he told himself, he could sleep on the plane for twenty hours if he wanted to. He’d rushed up and down the stairs to shower quickly, brush his teeth, and get dressed, minimal tasks before he’d set off. He was struggling to make his way down the stairs, each step a thud or two, and when he reached the second floor landing, the door nearby slid open. Hiroko peered out with a smile from the small kitchen, where she was busying herself, to inform him she’d prepared him breakfast, then went back to her task. He stood there, ready to depart with his luggage, which was heavier and more densely packed than yesterday, and a carrier for Makkachin, who was already padding around down by the lounge with the same energy Viktor would exhibit at ungodly hours in the morning. When Yuuri didn’t make a move, a voice from the living area, right across the kitchen, yelled for him to eat. Yuuri’s groggy mind belatedly registered it as Minako. He set his belongings by the hallway and stepped into the small room. Minako casually sat on a cushion and again ordered him to eat.

In between bites, she said, “You look terrible. Did you sleep?”

“A little bit. What are you doing here so early?”

“Mari told me you’re leaving. I’m seeing you off.”

“Oh.” Yuuri thought about how he put his shirt on backwards on his first try before coming down. “Thanks.”

“Could be five years until I see my favorite student again.”

Yuuri sat down and picked up his chopsticks. “I’m sorry.”

Minako reached over the table to pat his head once. “Don’t be. I’m happy you’re going and not retiring, you know.” She grinned. “We’re all proud of you, okay?”

He began to eat in earnest. He was going to miss his mother’s cooking. He was going to miss Hasetsu. After a while, he looked up at his teacher. He deliberated if he should voice out what was bothering him all night. He was about to let it go when she noticed his gaze.

“What’s on your mind, Yuuri?” she asked, as she leaned with her elbows on the table.

He was about to say nothing, but he remembered the five unread text messages from Viktor in his inbox. “Did you ever have lovers?” He cringed at how badly that sounded. “Foreign ones?” Now, that was too obvious, he realized, and promptly sipped his steaming miso soup—a decision he regretted immediately. But at least it was out there.

“Ah.” Her fingers tapped her cheek. “I had a couple of boyfriends and girlfriends in France and Germany. Does that help?”

Yuuri averted his eyes but nodded as he put down the bowl. “How did you tell them they’re important to you?” Of course, his fifteen-year-old self had already told Viktor he loved him. But those Russian words were imitation. They were a container of feelings hardly comparable to how Yuuri felt at present, utterly small and synthetic.

Minako’s eyebrows shot up briefly and then she frowned in consideration. “I told them they’re important to me, but I suppose that’s not the answer you’re looking for. What’s the problem, really?”

“It’s just that—well, I’m fluent in English. Viktor is as well. But it’s still difficult to tell him...”

The first time a stranger had told Yuuri  _I love you_  was when the newly hired part-time worker at Detroit Skating Club thanked him for teaching her turn on the Zamboni. He was caught off-guard and felt awkward at first, rubbing his neck in a nervous habit, but ultimately Yuuri didn’t mind it; he even pondered if  _I love you, too_  would have been a proper response, young as he was at eighteen and English too foreign a concept to him, but she ran off onto the ice with the machine before he could. He hadn’t dwelt on it then—surprising, given his propensity toward excessive dwelling on things—not even the subsequent  _I love you_ ’s he’d received from other Americans he’d encountered, for some weird reason. What was their casual  _I love you_  compared to his mother’s soft, tender “Dai suki da yo,”before he got on the plane to America? The ones uttered by actors on the big screen, “Ai shiteru,” or even, “Ai shimetsu,” cheesy as they were, in the few romantic movies he’d watched with Yuuko in their teens?  _I love you_ —they were words he couldn’t feel wholly, words whose gravitas was lost on him. He didn’t want to say it without meaning, and he didn’t want Viktor to receive it without meaning either. The enormity of his feelings couldn’t be contained in English. It didn’t exist in English.

“It’s difficult in English,” said Yuuri, slicing at his omelette.

“Ah. I get you.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Hmm-mm,” she agreed. “I tried to tell them I love them in French or German—I had to go to the library, since we didn’t have Google then—but it just felt like saying words, like hello to a stranger.” She shrugged.

Yuuri looked up. “Exactly!”

“So you want to tell Viktor you love him…” Minako paused to take in his flushed face before continuing: “… but can’t say it in Japanese because he won’t understand, and not even in English or Russian, because you don’t understand?”

“I—well, yes.”

“Tough. But as you can see I’m still single. You’ve progressed more than I have because at least you two were able to talk through skating well enough. My lovers didn’t even know ballet.”

“But that’s the problem. It’s not enough that we talk through skating. I’m not even sure how we made it this far. Sometimes, I’m not sure if he’s—” He cleared his throat, unable to go on, and stuffed his mouth with a mouthful of rice.

Minako tilted her head. “How so? Aren’t you engaged? Didn’t you propose and now you’re both wearing rings?”

 _He was joking_ , Yuuri repeated what he’d been thinking the past days, weeks.

“You’re leading, aren’t you?” she said, cupping her chin on her hand. “And he’s following?”

Yuuri looked at her, bemused. “What?”

She sighed, sounding tired. Rubbing her temple, she said, “Eat up. Isn’t your flight at nine? We need to leave soon.”

It took them half an hour to finish their goodbyes. Hiroko told him, “Call often.” Toshiya whispered, “Enjoy the vodka,” and ruffled his hair, grinning. Mari clapped his back and said, “Don’t take too long to visit.” But they meant the same thing to Yuuri—that they loved him. Despite exhaustion, he hardly slept on the way. His mind was busy: How could numerous, indirect Japanese words mean so much to him, but few direct English ones be so empty? Why did Minako even say that he was leading, being obscure when he was asking for a solution?

At departure, she embraced him. “Reach out to him,” she said.

Perhaps it was lack of sleep but he would be alone with his thoughts in the next twenty hours, and he needed some sort of answer—anything before he faced Viktor—that he snapped, “What do you even mean by that?”

Minako was unfazed. “He’s been reaching out to you the past year. Reach back.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“I don’t know how to make it make sense, Yuuri. I’ve got nothing. Take care over there, all right? Tell Viktor to drop by Japan for a drink with me.”

Yuuri proceeded through the terminals, hardly aware as he showed his passport whenever necessary. He collapsed onto his seat in the plane by the window, and then he realized he hadn’t received a single text from Viktor since last night. He decided to check his inbox. Viktor was mostly asking how the celebration had been and how the Katsukis and Nishigoris were doing. The last one was a good night message, telling Yuuri to rest well, but Yuuri knew it was Viktor giving him space, assuming his silence meant he needed it. Viktor was not wrong.

Leaning back to his seat, Yuuri closed his eyes and visualized Viktor ’s delighted face and heart-shaped mouth. He set his lips in preparation, licked them, then slowly mouthed,  _ai shiteru_ , but before he finished, he felt his body come up in flames. He shook his head firmly, as though willing the heat to dissipate from his mortified face. He turned his attention back to his phone, pushing back the memory of what he just did at the dark recesses of his mind.

He opted to respond online via the in-flight wi-fi. He’d found a vaporwave edit of Viktor’s face while lurking on twitter, and he decided to link it as way of greeting.

Viktor responded an hour after, the notification stirring Yuuri awake:  _Yuuri! Good morning!!!!_ _☆_ _～_ _('_ _▽_ _^_ _人_ _)_

Yuuri grinned and sent _good mornin_ followed by another meme from ＱＵＡＤ　ＡＸＥＬ ゐひﾑり ﾑﾒ乇ﾚ, a Facebook page dedicated to vaporwave aesthetic and skating. He could almost feel his chest bursting with excitement and anxiety. It was barely a week, but he missed being in the same vicinity as Viktor; how, when he moved, Viktor would as well, as if one’s act would spark off another’s.

On their first day at Yubileyny Sports Palace, Viktor had spent the first hour of their warm-ups clinging onto Yuuri’s arm, occasionally leading their glide into a portion of their pair skate. Yuuri had hardly minded until he noticed the look of amazement from other skaters.

“Honestly, I don’t get how you were able to train around him,” Yurio had said during a break. “He’s kind of too much sometimes. Are we eating lunch somewhere?”

Yuuri had been confused. Viktor had never been too much, in his opinion. Though lately, something was itching at the back of his mind, not just what he’d brought up to Minako. The problem was not that what they had was too much, but it was not enough. It was never enough; he wanted more and more of Viktor as the time passed, and he always felt so selfish for it. The thought of being with Viktor was both pleasure and guilt. How he had made Viktor stay with him, he didn’t know, but he would find a way to let Viktor know, to let the world know, that he appreciated him.

The cabin crew spoke through a speaker about snacks, and Yuuri looked out the window.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Viktor's!


	4. how we are together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi - wow, smells great!” she said, turning her head to the stove behind the couch. She closed the door behind, and Viktor went back to work. “What is that?”
> 
> “Oyakodon,” he said, grinning. “I’m almost done.” He looked around, wondering if he should direct her to the couch or to one of the dining chairs. “Er - you can sit anywhere.”
> 
> Laughing, she made her way behind the couch to sit by the table. “You don’t get a lot of visitors, do you?”
> 
> “You may be my second.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the month-long lack of update. This chapter is twice as long as the usual ones, so I hope you enjoy that. Biggest thanks to [QueBae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/QueBae) for helping me with the recipe and to [unexpectedtrash](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unexpectedtrash) for looking this over.
> 
> Some stuff: That _Rating May Change_ tag. There's a possibility that it will happen soon (like next chapter) - sorry if you don't like that, but it will help foreground the project of this fic (aka, the title). Also, I did a somewhat serious digital painting thing for this fic. It's on the first chapter, replacing the messy sketch that was initially there. 
> 
> Lastly, check out the @victuuriwriters tumblr. Lots of good stuff.

It was half-past three in the morning when Viktor opened his eyes. He’d been awake for a while now, but he was determined to treat himself to sleeping in—rather unsuccessful, since he was awake even earlier than usual. He hadn’t looked forward waking up alone in bed again, spoiled as he was by cuddling with Yuuri in Barcelona and during their first week back in Russia. The memory brought a smile to his face, one he would say was uncharacteristic of him.

Viktor was fully aware of the drastic change in his demeanor the past eight months or so, and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that shocking his rink mates into speechless gaping was nothing short of amusing. In another time, he would’ve been bothered by that, always hiding behind the facade of a fake, behaved smile, but, honestly, he was having far too much fun—more than he could remember—and it was as if he were twelve again and seeing the world in a child-like perspective.

Sometimes, the reality of the situation—that he was wearing a gold ring to match Yuuri’s, that this was his life now—would hit him, and he would feel overwhelmed as though his lungs were being squeezed with a tight hug, and he’d have to hold onto the rink barrier or any nearby support to steady himself. It was a pleasant feeling, warmth spreading from his chest to his fingertips, very much welcome not just in the cold climate of St. Petersburg, but in the coldness that had invaded Viktor’s core in the long period before that fateful night in Sochi.

He sat up, and the poetry collection he’d been reading last night slid from his chest to the bed on his side. Ah, he’d fallen asleep waiting for a response from Yuuri, despite already saying good night. His phone was on his left bedside table, face down underneath the lamp that was still lit. The urge to check for messages was eclipsed by hesitation; “Ya lyublyu tebya,” he had whispered over the phone on impulse five days ago, and he wondered now if that was too soon. It also didn’t escape him how Yuuri fell silent when he dropped the word  _fiance_ yesterday to test the waters. Perhaps he’d read the childhood letter Yuuri had given him wrong.

Rubbing his temple, he got onto his feet and made his way to the kitchen, only grabbing his phone as an afterthought. He pulled the bag of oats from the upper shelf over the sink and milk from the refrigerator. Sure, he was craving the usual meals served at Yu-topia, but he was not in the mood to make something beyond kasha. He boiled the oats with the milk and waited.

There was ‘я люблю тебя’ at the end of the letter. But Yuuri was fifteen when he’d written that, Viktor reasoned, walking around the stove counter.

The bowl and phone were placed side-by-side on the sleek, hardwood table. Viktor sat, tapping his foot on the floor. Then he decided: he took the phone in his hand and unlocked it. There was a message from Yuuri. No words, just a link. Upon clicking it, Viktor had to smile bemusedly. On his screen was a highly edited image of his face juxtaposed random repetitive patterns on a pink and blue backdrop. The word ‘ICE ICE DADDY’ sealed the deal; Viktor had to laugh slightly. Fans had called him that on multiple occasions online, but Yakov had forbidden him to actually acknowledge them with more than a like. He greeted Yuuri a good morning followed by an excited-looking emoji. Barely a minute passed when Yuuri greeted back with another meme. Viktor grinned and pressed the call button. The ringing faded without Yuuri answering. Less than a minute later, Yuuri sent,  _please dont call_.

Viktor blinked. That had not happened before. He sent,  _Is everything all right?_

Yuuri responded,  _yeah just busy @ the inn._

_Text me when it’s fine to call. x_

_ok_

It was fine, Viktor thought. He wondered what he’d do today. He wondered if he should invite Yurio over and cook up something, more for his own benefit, he though as he gave his kasha a withering look. Then he remembered Yurio mentioning that his grandfather would be visiting from Moscow and decided not to disrupt the family meeting. That left Yakov, Georgi, and Mila. Yakov had been staying over at Lilia’s, and they were starting to get along again since their divorce last January. Georgi was probably spending time with his new girlfriend; he’d mentioned that they hadn’t had time to be together on his birthday last twenty-sixth—that, Viktor could understand. Mila… also lived alone and would definitely not pass up a free meal.

It was new, this desire to be around people. In the past years, Viktor had spent his break from training alone. Before he’d turned eighteen, he’d be with Lilia and Yakov, then he thought he was imposing an unwanted presence.

Viktor dialed up Mila’s number, dreading after the fourth ring.

“Hello?” she said, finally picking up after the fifth. Her voice was hoarse. “Hey, Viktor, what’s up? You okay?”

“Are you busy?”

“Busy sleeping. It’s four in the morning, and there’s no training today. What’s your excuse?”

Viktor glanced at the clock above the shelves. She was right.

“How does a free meal sound?” he said, injecting joy into his voice. “And a drink or two? Three?”

“Free meal, sounds good. Free drink, really great. But like I said, four in the morning. Expect me at ten. Send me your address because I’ve never been to your place.”

And that was that. Mila hung up. Viktor chuckled, pouring his supposed breakfast into the bin and tossing the bowl into the sink. It was nice to keep his mind distracted. He made his way to the bathroom for a quick shower to make himself look half the man he’d always presented to the camera. When he stepped out, he scrutinized his brightly-lit apartment—it was bare, most of his belongings still in Japan, and it made the slight mess more evident, like the couple of books lying open on the coffee table and the unruly cables beneath the television for the game console he’d bought for Yuuri but didn’t have the patience to set up. His eyes zeroed in on the blue cloth trying to camouflage itself against the back of his navy-colored couch, and he scowled.

After his Free Skate performance, Viktor had heard a yell of a birthday greeting. As he’d spun around to bow to whoever it was, the fan had thrown in a rolled-up blue and silver fabric, which he’d picked up gratefully. Unfurling it at the Kiss and Cry had been a mistake of sorts, if Yakov’s beet-red complexion was anything to go by, as it was a g-string of Yuuri’s  _Stammi Vicino_ costume. Later, he’d realize that the camera had managed to zoom in close enough for the design details to blow up online. How his fans managed to create a thing just a few weeks after the Grand Prix Final was astonishing—even more so the fact that it was just the right size for Viktor to wear. He’d formed a heart with his hands as a sign of gratitude.

It wasn’t like Mila and everyone else who had tuned into the broadcast of Russian Nationals didn’t know of its existence, because they definitely did as he put up a picture on Instagram the same day, but its being in his own apartment had different connotations. He threw it into the bedroom and locked it. Now, he stood in front of the refrigerator, which had been filled to the brim before Yuuri had returned to Japan. At the moment, there wasn’t much besides essentials to his diet. Viktor had to admit, he might’ve gone overboard with the groceries then but he knew Yuuri loved food. Besides, as Yuuri’s coach, he had to make sure everything Yuuri ate was healthy and fresh, so it was not merely that he liked buying things for Yuuri. After all, he had some restraint: nothing too heavy on the calories while the season was ongoing. (Even if he’d love to meet Yuuri’s tummy again.)

Viktor was sure Mila hadn’t eaten much Japanese cuisine; she’d gone to Japan only once for Worlds last year. He gathered the ingredients that he did have around, setting the bottles and containers of mirin, sake, soy sauce, sugar, and dashi by the strip of the counter beside the stove and the eggs and bag of rice by the sink. They were for oyakodon, a rice bowl dish—a  _donburi_ , according to Hiroko—like katsudon, but with chicken instead.

The metallic design of his counters showed blurry reflections of his solitary figure in the middle of his kitchen. It had been a sleek design, but somehow he missed the old and worn wood structure of Yu-topia’s kitchens; his place looked more empty than minimalist. The only visibly different element in it was the newly-bought rice cooker in the corner, beside the coffee maker, and other kitchenware he’d acquainted himself back in Japan. He measured three cups of rice into the pot and rinsed it under the tap. Once settled into the cooker,  he marched to the door to take his coat and Yuuri’s cat-earned beanie from the rack and patted his pocket to make sure his wallet was there. Then he set off for the nearest twenty-four-hour grocery store for the fresh ingredients and vodka. He returned thirty minutes or so later, plastic bag crinkling with each step.

It was still too early. The windows in the apartment were dark, showing off Viktor’s image in every direction as if he actually had company. His building overlooked Tuchkov bridge, the river, and Yubileyny just beyond; at this hour, they didn’t exist, only dots of lights below.

He considered spending an hour reading one of the books on his coffee table, but he remembered that the poems in that one were about places in which leaving was inevitable, separation looming, and— “I will find my own apartment afterwards though,” Yuuri had told him, when he had offered. Instead, Viktor decided to clean. Usually, he’d hire someone, but there was something mind-numbing in doing it himself—the loud sound of the vacuum, the need to focus on a spot of dirt on some surface, the overwhelming smell of cleaning detergent. It was barely morning, his mind was whirring, and he had too much energy for someone who only had a few hours of sleep.

By nine o’clock, the apartment was spotless, sterile, and much worse than before—Yuuri’s presence had been scrubbed off, and Viktor deliberated if that was for the best,  to not get attached. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t see each other during training, he reminded himself. It wasn’t like they were breaking up. It wasn’t the end.

Chicken breasts rested on a plate beside the chopping board. Viktor had wandered into the upper kitchen of Yu-topia the afternoon he and Yuuri had come back from Cup of China, and found Hiroko about to make oyakodon. He’d asked why Hiroko was busying herself with chicken instead of pork, and she’d told him Yuuri had, surprisingly, refused katsudon, reasoning that he was in the middle of the Grand Prix circuit and could not afford to eat the heavy meal; chicken would be lighter in the stomach.

Viktor beat the eggs, holding the bowl at an angle, the way Hiroko had done it. Afterwards, he picked up the knife. In the warm kitchen of Hasetsu, the small one in the second floor, she’d gestured for him to slice the onions and scallions. He remembered her voice, tenderly enunciating halting English, as she’d began to explain what oyakodon was—parent-and-child donburi, she had told him, because of the chicken and the egg. Viktor had accidentally given his index finger a shallow cut, and they had to pause for a few minutes as Hiroko fetched a plaster for him. She had insisted that he sit still on a chair, despite his protests that it was not a big wound, there was no need to bother.

Once the bits of onions and scallions were sorted in a smaller dish, he started on the chicken, mimicking the technique Hiroko had taught him. Sogigiri, she had said, for a more tender bite. Remove, she had added, pointing at the stringy parts of the flesh. He left the strips on the chopping board, and he spun to face the stove to begin cooking, oyakodon pan at a ready. Hand steady on the upright handle, he poured mirin and sake, letting the mixture boil over medium heat. Hiroko would say a tablespoon or two or three while tipping a bottle for a few seconds. This one—the ability to estimate—Viktor had to master, as he was far too used to measured recipe instructions. Next were the dashi, soy sauce, and sugar. Satisfied with the taste, he added an arranged layer of onion on the sauce and gingerly placed the chicken over it, wincing as the tips of his index finger and thumb got burnt very briefly. He had watched Hiroko maneuver the process with expert hands, unlike his own clumsy ones, drizzling the beaten egg over the chicken like it was art and shaking the pan from time to time as if it was part of a choreography.

Did his parents miss him, she’d asked, sprinkling scallion into the pan, then covering it, as he did now. She had looked up at him, a wide smile similar to Yuuri’s. Would his parents approve of her son, she’d followed up before Viktor could answer.

I don’t know, he had replied. Maybe they would, he had added.

Hiroko had only nodded and embraced him briefly, she barely reaching his chest, then returned to her work, directing him whenever he could help.

Viktor scooped rice into two bowls, the steam warming up his face. The line of windows by the living area showed the rising sun, the sky turning lighter by the minute, a mix of blue and orange. He slid the chicken and egg onto one and proceeded to make another batch. As he was shaking the pan to swirl the egg and chicken, he heard a series of knocks. Viktor lowered the heat before jumping two meters past the refrigerator and coat rack, his right knee grazing the chair beside it, to let Mila in.

“Hi—wow, smells great!” she said, turning her head to the stove behind the couch. She closed the door behind, and Viktor went back to the stove. “What is that?”

“Oyakodon,” he said, grinning. “I’m almost done.” He looked around, wondering if he should direct Mila to the couch or to one of the dining chairs. “Er—you can sit anywhere.”

Laughing, she made her way behind the couch to sit by the table. “You don’t get a lot of visitors, do you?”

“You may be my second.”

Viktor finished cooking. He lifted the bowls in each hand, chopsticks on his and a fork on Mila’s, and went around the counter. Setting them down, he sat beside her.

“Oh,” he said, standing again. “I’ll get the drinks.”

“Sit down.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back to his chair as she rose. “Where are they?”

“Bottles in the chiller, glasses on the shelves.”

“Got it.”

Humming her own program music, circled around the kitchen area, gathering a bottle and two shot glasses and setting them in between their bowls. Viktor twisted the bottle’s cap and poured for both of them. He raised his glass, and she did the same. They made a toast.

“For Euros,” she said, grinning.

“For Euros,” he repeated and downed the shot in one gulp. The heat was quick to pass from his throat and down his esophagus. It was good.

“Oh, this is great,” said Mila. She had already taken a forkful of her meal. “Did Yuuri teach you this?”

“His mother did.”

“That’s oddly sentimental. When is he coming back?”

“Probably January third? I’m not sure; I haven’t asked yet.” He chuckled and shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m drinking with someone ten years younger.”

“I can’t believe I’m drinking with  _you_.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow. “I believe we drank in the past banquets.” He was suppressing a smirk. He knew exactly what Mila meant. He’d never invited someone over before, and he usually exclusively drank with skaters in his bracket at bars. Mila had always been friendly enough, but he’d kept every member of the Russian national team—besides Yakov, who was like some sort of ever-present parental figure breathing down his neck—at a distance. The Viktor of the past years would never believe he would invite one of his rinkmates over to his home for a home-cooked meal and a drink—he’d simply stay in and read with Makkachin or he’d drink alone in some fancy bar and take an Uber home at three in the morning, crying into Makkachin’s fur to apologize for leaving her for five hours to drink alone.

He poured another shot for both of them, chugged his, then did it again. There was a pleasant lightness in his head accompanied by mild buzzing. He picked a chicken strip with his chopsticks and put it in his mouth. It wasn’t comparable to Hiroko’s. With enough practice, though, he could invite Yuuri over and make it for him for whenever he would get homesick.

“I miss Yuuri,” said Mila, drinking hers. “He’s shy, but he can be fun to be with if we hang out long enough. Even Lilia misses him.”

Viktor pouted. “Well, imagine how  _I_ feel. He’s my boyfriend.”

“Yeah, yeah, I could detect your pining all the way from across Malaya Neva—for Yuuri and your dog. It’s okay, Viktor.” Giving him a sympathetic look, he patted his arm. “I’m also pining internationally. It’s a popular trend in the rink nowadays. Except for Georgi, you know? Can you believe that?”

He chuckled. “At least his programs are a little more restrained now.”

“I’m going to miss watching the tears. RIP, Georgi’s artistry.”

Viktor hummed.

They ate and drank with only the scraping of utensils and the clinking of glass on wood to fill in the silence. Viktor made sure to stay sober for now, slowing down his consumption eventually. He could get black-out drunk once he’d sent his visitor off, after all. After a while, he asked, “Wait, who are you pining for? I haven’t heard about this.”

Mila smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said and drank another shot.

“Is it Yurio’s friend? Otabek Altin?”

“Yura would kill me.” She peered up at him. “When are you and Yuuri getting married anyway? I mean, you two already act married, but when is it gonna be official?”

Viktor put on a nonchalant smile. “When he gets gold, of course.”

“Come on. I know you’re itching to sign the marriage contract. There’s a betting pool at the rink, and I need to win.”

“I don’t know,” he said, letting his facade slip. He looked down, tracing a finger over his glass and wondering if he should stop drinking for now altogether, at least while Mila was there. He breathed in and grinned. “But I want to be surprised!”

Mila shook her head. “I’ve known your boyfriend officially for only two weeks, but I’m already so invested.” She pointed an index finger up at him. “You ask him. I don’t know Yuuri that well—not yet—but we will be friends and I’m gonna play video games with him and you can’t kick me out of your apartment—”

“He won’t be living here, so it’s up to him if you could stay over at his.”

Mila blinked. “What?”

“He’s going to find an apartment, and he’s only staying here until he finds one.”

“What?” she repeated, louder this time. She suddenly stood up, her chair screeching as it was pushed back, and held his shoulders. “Listen, Viktor, I am, like, nineteen, but I need you to ask him to stay. Sing him that  _Stammi Vicino_  song, I don’t know. Got it?”

Lines formed in between Viktor’s eyebrows. “What if—what if he says  _no_?” he whined. “What if thinks I’m being pushy, then breaks up with me, and then he returns to Japan? What if he doesn’t come back because I told him I love him and it’s too much? He probably doesn’t like—” He brandished an arm over his head to his side. “—he doesn’t like this apartment because I don’t have a cabinet. I can buy a cabinet. I can buy a new apartment. Mila, let’s hunt for a new apartment.” He whipped out his phone.

“Slow down, Viktor!” Mila looked torn between looking concerned and bursting into laughter. She sat back down. “You don’t need to go as far as getting a new place. I’m sure this—um—looks nice enough to Yuuri.”

Viktor frowned. “Why doesn’t he like it?” He paused, a look in his eyes. “You know what, I can love him from a different apartment.”

Rolling her eyes, Mila poured them both vodka. “Ask him why, glupyy. If it’s because he doesn’t want to impose, tell him it’s okay for him to stay. God knows he’s too shy. If it’s because he wants space, you let him. It doesn’t mean he’ll break up with you.”

“I know that,” he whispered. “But it’s new. And I worry.”

He’d never forgotten the story Yuuri had told him—the pushy girl in Detroit. He didn’t want to push so much that Yuuri would feel suffocated. On Viktor’s first days in Hasetsu, Yuuri had ran away from his touch and his presence; he’d do anything for that to not happen again. So when Yuuri had referred to himself as katsudon, Viktor had replied he loved katsudon. When Yuuri had called what they had on ice love, he’d happily taken it. He would take only what Yuuri had to give.

And Viktor would never forget the first time Yuuri had embraced him; Yuuri had initiated the contact himself. It had subconsciously told Viktor then,  _yes, you can hold me_. What he had right now with Yuuri, Viktor reminded himself, was more than enough, and he shouldn’t ask for more. He shouldn’t step over the line Yuuri had set. He’d learned most of Yuuri’s movements, Yuuri’s own metaphors and language. But it was difficult.

The winters of the past years had been especially cold, when Viktor couldn’t even be bothered to get out of bed to turn on the heater. More than that, there was frigidness in his bones that hindered his mobility beyond skating, his motivations to move. He’d wrapped himself in blankets to fight off the chilling weather, right after returning home from winning another gold medal. Those days were days he didn’t want to go back to.

At least now, the heater was up, for when Yuuri would come around. If Yuuri needed a separate living space, that would be fine.

“Can’t believe the skating world’s hottest bachelor can be so insecure,” said Mila, this time inhaling the vodka from the bottle. “Yuuri has literal stars in his eyes when he looks at you.”

Gently prying the drink from her hands, Viktor smiled fondly and said, “I may have caused his sexual awakening. It’s a bit flattering, really. Mari-neechan showed me some of Yuuri’s posters of me. Mila, he had limited editions even I never saw! From 2006!” He looked up the ceiling, remembering how Mari had pulled him aside at the inn one day to show him old pictures of Yuuri’s room. It may have been caused by some sibling fight, which Viktor hadn’t asked about.

Mila snorted into her arm. “Why are you both like that? You are too wildly in love. I’m almost jealous—” Her eyes widened. “Oh, God, I’m turning into Georgi.” She shook her head. “Anyway, Viktor, you wont lose anything by asking.”

“I’ll consider it.”

After eating, Mila pulled another bottle from the chiller and brought it with her as she flopped down the couch. Viktor watched from where he sat behind her. She picked up a sheet from the coffee table and squinted at the instruction for setting up the video game console.

“I’d help you with this,” she slurred, “but the letters are dancing. I’ll stare a bit more.”

Viktor walked over. “There’s no need.” He plucked the bottle from her grip easily and placed it on the table. “Yuuri will bring it with him to his apartment when he finds one.”

Mila spun around so fast, it startled him. She was kneeling on the cushions. She then leaned at the back of the couch. “Shut up,” she said, glaring. “You will ask him to stay.”

“Yes,” Viktor sighed. “But it doesn’t guarantee he will.”

“Ask him,” she repeated and slowly descended into a proper sitting position. “Do you have music?”

At the corner of the room, in between the bathroom door and the farthest window, was the work desk where his laptop rested almost permanently. Viktor marched over to turn it on and play something specifically not classical music; it was a break, after all. As the sound of saxophone blared from the device, Mila sat on the floor, her legs around the console. She bobbed her head to the rhythm and twisted a cable in her fingers thoughtfully. Viktor settled onto the couch, watching with amusement.

Mila craned her neck to look at him. “Never pegged you for a Jepsener,” she commented, grinning. “I’m gonna tweet that to your fans.”

“ _Emotion_ was a masterpiece.”

She frowned. “Why are there other cables? You only need this.”

“I bought others in case they’re needed? I’ve never had a console before.”

“It’s obvious.”

For some minutes, Mila worked on the console. When she was done, she straightened up and stretched.  _Just let me in your arms,_  the lyrics carried into the room.  _Just let me in your arms._

Mila went home in the late afternoon after sobering up slightly with the help of soup and tea.  The sky began to darken, and the brief brightness of the day seemed like a dream. Wrapping himself in his arms, Viktor shivered; his apartment was once again without warmth.

 

* * *

([source](http://rayjinar.tumblr.com/post/155898788259/floor-plan-of-victors-flat-dimensions-bedroom))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wanna talk about YOI, message me @rayjinar on tumblr for my fandom/personal tumblr. Sorry for this complicated procedure. Heh.


	5. You live in me, outside me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be touched, to be wanted, to be loved. A fire inside Viktor had him gasping in mixed Russian and English, and he only vaguely wondered if Yuuri understood him—but everything Yuuri did was just right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to my dearest saltmate, renaissance, ultimate enabler, even when they're not aware—like how I was determined to finish this in time for their birthday.
> 
> Also thank you to Aimee and dommific for looking over this chapter.

From the practices at Ice Castle to their exhibition just hours ago, their dance had always felt like a gift—a constant source of surprise. Viktor had choreographed the changes from the aria to accommodate the duetto, and yet, whenever their fingers touched or Yuuri’s hand slid down his cheek, Viktor would have to repress a small gasp. Despite knowing which lift or jump to follow, experiencing it with Yuuri at present was different altogether.

A mild current ghosted his body, just underneath his skin, as Yuuri, with gentle hands, pushed him down on the hotel bed. Moving to cradle his face, Yuuri planted a soft kiss on his lips, then pulled back. It wasn’t hesitation on Yuuri’s face now but shyness. Viktor could very well understand, given what he himself expected to happen. For all his playboy persona presented to the media, he couldn’t draw enough confidence to ask Yuuri to continue. But he didn’t need to.

In the quietness of their hotel room, something changed, and Yuuri kissed him again with more heat than they’d ever done in China, Russia, or in the corners of Yu-topia. To be touched, to be wanted, to be loved. A fire inside Viktor had him gasping in mixed Russian and English, and he only vaguely wondered if Yuuri understood him; everything Yuuri did was just right.

* * *

Viktor had always been a light sleeper, but it had been worse recently, and he suspected it would continue to be so until after New Year’s. The silence in his apartment was deafeningly loud—but dull compared to the Yu-Topia’s ceaseless chatters and clatters and Makkachin’s woofs. He couldn’t remember what woke him up just now, probably a precariously placed pan on the counter eased by gravity, or—

A familiar rhythm of steps, creaking wheels dragged across the room, a tired panting. Viktor had already thrown his blanket aside and jumped off the bed before what the sounds meant even registered to him. Yanking the door open, brightness from outside spilled into his room. He blinked and found Yuuri, bundled up with layers of coat and a scarf, hovering over Makkachin’s carrier to open it. Makkachin produced a small whine and, snuggling to herself, continued to sleep in it.

“I was supposed to surprise you,” said Yuuri. He straightened up and removed his facemask to reveal a frown. “You should be sleeping.”

Was Viktor dreaming? Without a word, he closed the distance between them and kissed Yuuri, whose lips were cold and chapped from being out; Viktor made a mental note to put lip balm on them later. Only when Yuuri placed gloved hands on Viktor’s hips did Viktor realize that he was wearing nothing but the  _ Stammi Vicino  _ g-string. When he pulled away, Yuuri beamed at him, eyes twinkling in the light, and Viktor was glad for all the lamps in the room.

Then Yuuri’s expression changed, eyes widened and eyebrows raised, as something dawned on him. He said, “Oh my god, did I wake you? Did you just kiss me with your morning breath?” He laughed. “Go brush your teeth first before you kiss me again.”

It took a few seconds for the joke to sink in, and Viktor chuckled at himself and shook his head. His emotions had been simmering just under the past weeks. When Yuuri swept his hair aside and swiped at his cheek, he realized—oh, he was crying.

Yuuri was confused. “I’m—” he began but Viktor cut him off.

“No, I’m just happy.”

“Oh,” said Yuuri, and he appeared relieved. “I’m happy, too.” He looked to the side, and Viktor noticed a blush spreading down his neck. “Were you drinking?” he asked, noticing the bottles on the kitchen counter.

“I invited Mila over. I made oyakodon.” Viktor stepped back to make his way to the bathroom. With regret, he immediately felt Yuuri’s absence from his exposed skin. “Are you hungry? There were some leftovers. I can make a quick fried rice for you.”

“That would be nice.”

He’d dreamed their reunion to be accompanied with a grand declaration of love, another sprint to each other’s arms like in Fukuoka. He splashed cold water on his face, then brushed his teeth, before making a detour to pick up a shirt. Outside, Yuuri had already settled in one of the seats by the table, his head resting on a palm. Coats and scarf removed, he now wore a black-and-white striped shirt.

“I was looking for that shirt the other day,” Viktor remarked as he reached for the overhead shelves. “I should’ve known you took it.”

“It’s so soft! I love wearing it.”

That made Viktor smile; he made a mental note for future purchases. It took him half-an-hour to prepare the meal, and he served it as he sat down beside Yuuri, who said, “Itadakimasu!” and eagerly took a first bite.

“Didn’t like airplane food?”

“I slept the whole flight.”

Viktor laughed. “Of course.” He leaned on Yuuri’s side, and Yuuri leaned back to him on instinct. The shirt smelled like the detergent Yu-topia used to wash its robes. It was bought in bulk, he discovered in his second month stay, without a brand to its name, but generic scent was one he’d always associated with Yuuri. “Are you all right being away from your family on New Year’s?”

“You’re family, too.”

“Thank you,” said Viktor, in lieu of something else and reached out for Yuuri’s free hand. He felt the long, bony fingers out of habit, for familiarity. The other hand wore the gold ring that matched his, and the sight gave him a boost of confidence.

“You bought a PS4.” There was surprise in Yuuri’s voice. “I thought you don’t play.”

“It’s for you. A Christmas gift.” In all honestly, Viktor didn’t have any occasion in mind when he’d bought the thing. He just wanted to. “Mila helped me set it up—she mostly did the work. You can teach me how to play on weekends! I never had so much free time before. And once… once you find a place of your own, I’m sure Mila will be happy to help set it up again for you. I can always bribe her with food.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Right, yes. Thanks. I mean, thank you!” Yuuri amended frantically; he squeezed Viktor’s hand in assurance. “I’m grateful. I—I don’t know why—I’m processing a lot of things right now… It was just a week, but I missed you, Viktor.”

“Me too, Yuuri.” Viktor’s voice was muffled, as he buried his face into Yuuri’s sleeve. “I can’t tell you how much. But I can show you.”

“What did you say, sorry?”

“I said,” said Viktor, straightening up and looking ahead to avert his gaze as he felt warmth creep up his cheeks, “I can show you.”

“Oh.” Yuuri blinked. “That would be nice.”

“Finish your meal first, love.”

* * *

There was a distinct change in the atmosphere as soon as they’d stepped into the bedroom. Perhaps it was physical, perhaps it was all in his head—Viktor didn’t know. Yuuri’s hand tightened its hold onto his, and his breathing became a little erratic, somewhat a reflection of the turmoil he’d been feeling the past days. As soon as he turned to face Yuuri, he was gently pushed to sit down, and Yuuri clambered to straddle him, hands reaching up for his face. Yuuri ran a thumb on Viktor’s lower lip before kissing him—then Yuuri pulled back. The brevity was maddening; the lingering hotness clung onto Viktor’s lips. But they stayed still in the silence, only their breathing audible.

After a while, Yuuri asked, “What do you want, Viktor?”

“Please,” said Viktor in a whisper, “I want—please—” His eyes stung, and before he could help it, he started crying again. “Please, fuck me.”

Yuuri stared at him, following the trails down his cheeks, and Viktor bowed his head, almost ashamed. Tears splashed on his bare thighs.

A hand touched his face. “No, look at me.” So Viktor did, and he placed his hand over Yuuri’s, then intertwined their fingers. More tears came, and Yuuri kissed him again. When Viktor gasped, Yuuri leaned into him, tongue exploring his mouth. Without delay, Viktor suckled the tip and moaned into the kiss. He adjusted his head to the side, which angled the path of his tears, then drew back and buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry I can’t stop crying.”

“No, it’s all right—you’re beautiful, look at me,” said Yuuri, cradling Viktor’s face up, and tears spilled to his fingers. He planted a kiss on Viktor’s eyes, right then left, then kissed his way down to Viktor’s mouth. “Please. You’re beautiful,” he murmured, licking a line on Viktor’s jaw, licking the salt from the skin, so gentle, so intimate a garbled sound escaped Viktor’s throat.

Viktor had ached for this during Yuuri’s absence—and it was painful to even remember the loneliness and longing in the few days they’d been apart. He clutched the fabric on Yuuri’s back, as tears flowed freely for Yuuri. He thrusted for friction, but whined when he only met air.

Yuuri nipped the skin down the length of his neck, sucking with increasing vigor, as his hands fingered the hem of Viktor’s shirt. He sat back up, grinning in the dark, and, taking notice, Viktor raised his arms for Yuuri to remove the clothing, which he threw aside somewhere. Then Yuuri bit Viktor’s exposed shoulder, making him cry, his voice dragging out into a moan of pleasure. He breathed in and exhaled shakily.

“You too,” he managed to say.

With a nod, Yuuri stepped back, pulling off his shirt, and began to unbutton his pants. Viktor watched as they fell down the floor, followed by his boxer briefs, then he, too, fell to his knees. Kneeling between Viktor’s thighs, Yuuri reached for the blue and silver fabric that covered Viktor’s crotch. He licked the clothed erection, making Viktor groan in frustration, because it wasn’t enough—there was something in the way—but before he could say so, Yuuri, with a playful glint in his eyes, slid hands at the back of Viktor’s knees.

“Lie down, Viktor.”

And Viktor did without protestations. Yuuri pushed his legs up until his ass was exposed. He felt fingers graze down his skin, and one traced the line of the string in between the cheeks. A shiver ran through his spine. Framed by his legs, Yuuri looked powerful, like he could do everything to Viktor, and Viktor wanted it all.

Yuuri pulled the string aside, and Viktor swallowed the lump on his throat. Yuuri leaned in. As soon as he felt the prod of a tongue on his entrance, Viktor gasped.

When Yuuri backed away, Viktor whimpered.

“Was that okay?”

“Yes, yes, yes, please, continue.”

Viktor closed his eyes shut, letting sensations wrap his body and overwhelm his senses. Yuuri licked him, just as he did the tears, tracing the rim of his entrance and thoroughly lapping up his skin, wetness trickling down his ass. One hand hovered up to gently stroke his cock, and the doubled sensations were driving Viktor so crazy, he clawed the sheets. He thrust up, wanting more, and Yuuri pushed his tongue into him in shallow motions. Viktor moaned nonstop, voice breaking as he sobbed. He rubbed his nipples in desperation, back arching on the mattress, as Yuuri’s mouth was relentless on him.

There was a build-up inside him, heat pulsing from his pelvis, and his voice escalated just as he felt. Then Yuuri was gone, and Viktor whimpered at the absence, his legs settling back down.

“Not yet, Viktor,” said Yuuri, standing up.

“Yuuri, please.”

“You said you want me to fuck you.”

“Yes, Yuuri! Yes.”

Yuuri made his way around the bed, reached for the drawer, then went back to his previous position. Viktor watched the silhouette of Yuuri’s cock hungrily.

“I will,” said Yuuri. When Viktor made for the waistband of his g-string, Yuuri said, “No. I want it there. Put up your legs.”

Viktor nodded and did what he was told, even as his erection strained to get free.

“I found a cute keychain,” said Yuuri, massaging Viktor’s ass, thigh, purposefully avoiding the bulge except for a teasing graze, “at the airport. So cute…”

Viktor breathed heavily. “Yeah?”

“Looked like Makkachin.”

His cheeks were spread apart, and he felt something cool touch his entrance. Yuuri rubbed the lube over the hole before pushing a knuckle in. Viktor hissed, then inhaled sharply.

“It’s a mini plushie you can attach to your bag.” Yuuri pushed deeper, further. “I got us a pair, so we match.”

“I’m—” Viktor groaned. “—excited to see them.”

The finger crooked inside him, and he yelped.

“You’ll love them, Viktor.”

Yuuri pulled out, then joined another finger in, thorough in exploration. Viktor panted, unable to do anything else in this position, not even beg. He was helpless under Yuuri’s ministrations, only able to thrust up his hips for any indication of wanting more. More, more, he thought, and turned his head aside. Tears prickled the corners of his eyes. In no time, he was crying again, wetting the sheet underneath his face.

Growling, Yuuri began fucking him with his fingers, stroking his tightening walls, making him shake and shiver. He clambered on the bed, fingers angling as he hovered over Viktor, who couldn’t do anything but cry. Suddenly, his mouth was on Viktor’s left nipple, hot on the skin, tongue circling it with increasing intensity, just as his fingers were on Viktor’s ass. Viktor reached up, hands at Yuuri’s nape to pull him closer—as close as Viktor could with his legs over Yuuri’s shoulders.

Yuuri removed his hand from Viktor, who whined, and then he aligned his cock over the hole. Adjusting his position, he began to push in, Viktor feeling his entrance accommodate the girth. It was agonizing how slow it was, and Viktor’s body shook, until Yuuri was entirely inside him. The fullness, how Yuuri was crowding him with his own body, the wet kisses on his skin, made him weep.

“How are you?” Yuuri asked, breathless. He pressed their foreheads together as he pulled his hips back, then thrust in with a little more force.

“Good.” Viktor’s voice was hoarse. “More. Fast.”

“Okay.”

They found a rhythm and picked up speed, Yuuri forceful in his thrusts, and Viktor needily meeting him. Viktor grunted as Yuuri reached under the fabric to stroke him. He threaded his fingers up Yuuri’s hair, gripping them for his dear life, until come spurted onto Yuuri’s hand and in his underwear. Still, Yuuri was relentless in fucking him, chasing his own release, as Viktor laid on the bed, his limbs feeling limp, the overstimulation rendering him helpless.

When Yuuri’s movements became erratic, he said, “Come in me, Yuuri.”

With one last shove, Yuuri did. When he pulled out, hot come trailed from Viktor’s entrance, and he shivered. Yuuri kissed his forehead, then his lips. Touched, wanted, and loved.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat me up @ [reginarfic](http://reginarfic.tumblr.com)!

**Author's Note:**

> "Rindu" is one of my all time favorite poems. You can read it [here](http://journals.upd.edu.ph/index.php/rws/article/viewFile/2875/2655).
> 
> My [tumblr](http://rayjinar.tumblr.com).
> 
> Comments and kudos are highly appreciated!


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